


Right Down to the XYZ of it

by ghostie_withthemostie



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: F/M, Professor Rick Sanchez, Spanking, Swearing, Teacher-Student Relationship, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-21
Updated: 2016-02-21
Packaged: 2018-05-22 11:01:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6076881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostie_withthemostie/pseuds/ghostie_withthemostie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You're a naughty student and Professor Sanchez needs to correct you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Right Down to the XYZ of it

Professor Sanchez rises from his place behind the desk and removes his tweed blazer, laying it across his chair. He adjusts his glasses, pushing them further up the bridge of his nose and moves to lean against the front of the desk, crossing his arms. Your eyes graze over him; his cotton-clad legs, the tucked in oxford shirt, a glimpse of bare chest, the line of his throat, that luscious mouth moving as he talked-

“-and I’m starting to think you-you’re not even listening, are you?”

Your eyes snap up to his eyes, a guilty flush creeping along your cheeks. Professor Sanchez sighs and shakes his head. And then his eyes are locked with yours and they’re burning. “Stand up,” he commands.

You slide out of your desk and hang your head. 

He slams his hand on the surface of the desk with a loud smack, making you jump. “You know, I didn’t g–earn my fucking _doctorate_ just so I could sit here and listen to myself talk while lazy sluts like you send text messages and daydream in my class. Do you have a-any idea how disrespectful you are?”

You flinch slightly at the insult, a knot of shame twisting in your gut. “I’m sorry, sir, I-”

He cuts you off sharply. “No, n-no, excuse me _, I’m_ sorry, but is my face being reflected onto the tile of the floor or is there some-some other reason that you can’t have the fucking basic courtesy to look up when you’re addressing me?”  

Embarrassingly, you feel yourself begin to blush again as you raise your eyes to his face. His arms are crossed and his brows are knit in distaste as he stares at you, waiting for you to continue. You swallow and shift your feet before resuming, “I’m sorry sir, I didn’t mean to daydream during your class. It won’t happen again.” 

Professor Sanchez pushes off the desk to come stand in front of you, burying his hands in his pockets, his lithe frame towering over you. You squirm under his scrutiny. 

“Are you suuuure it won’t happen again?” He asks. “Because as far-as far as I’ve seen, this has become a persistent problem with you d-during my class. What exactly is it that is distracting you so much that you find yourself unable to pay even the slightest bit of attention for my–d-during my lectures?” 

“I-n-nothing in particular, I…” you gulp and wring your hands, letting your eyes wander from his as you try to think of a suitable response. 

He grabs your hands and pulls them against his stomach harshly. “Stop that.” He demands. “You must have _some_ idea of what you-you’re thinking about since you seem to be thinking about it ssssso very often.” You can feel the muscles in his abdomen twitch underneath your fingers and your eyes dart down to stare at them. Unconsciously, you lick your lips. “Ahhh. I think I-I’m beginning to understand.” He takes a step closer, closing the gap between you. Heat floods between your thighs and your head spins at his proximity. His hands are now pressing yours against his stomach even more and you splay your fingers, feeling his warmth through the layers of cotton. He pushes downward on your hand until it’s resting on his trousers over his rapidly swelling cock. “Is this what you’re thinking about during lessons, hmm?” His voice has become low and even rougher than normal. “Me bending you over the desk and fucking you ‘til you cum, screaming my-my name?”

You whimper and grip him through his pants, the intense arousal that has just washed over you making it difficult to form words. “Y-yes. Please.” You continue massaging him through the cloth, Professor Sanchez bucking into your hand and making encouraging noises in the back of his throat. But when you move to unzip him, he steps back, shaking his head. 

“No, no, you see…that’s what _good_ girls get. And you haven’t been very good, h-have you?” You can only stare. He scoffs, “If you’re not going to use that mouth to answer me when I’m talking to you, then the least you can do is to—to put it to some good use. Get on your knees.”

You stand stock still, trying to gauge whether or not he’s serious, arousal fogging your mind and making your reactions slow. Anger flashes through his eyes and then he’s yanking you by the arm over to his desk and pushing you face down against it. You gasp when you feel the cool air hit your bare bottom as he flips up your short tartan skirt, a gasp that quickly becomes a sharp squeak of surprise when you feel his palm crack across your sensitive skin. He doesn’t allow you any time to become accustomed to the stinging pain, following the first smack with four more equally vicious ones, overlapping each time to ensure no amount of skin was left un-reddened by his hand.  You feel tears prick the corner of your eyes, partly from the pain, because,  _yeah it hurt_ , but also from the sheer debasement of the action of being bent over and spanked like a child. You hiss when he removes his hand and presses his straining erection flush against your smarting flesh, the scratchy texture of the fabric re-awakening the pain that had dulled into a slow throb.

Professor Sanchez slides his hand up your back to twist it in your ponytail, yanking your head back to an uncomfortable angle. “And _that_ is what you will get every time you fail to follow an instruction as-as quickly as possible. Except next time it will be 10. And th-then upwards in multiples of five until you’re crying and begging me to stop. Do you understand?”

 “Yes!” You pant instantly, heart hammering in your chest. You reddened buttocks pulse against his clothed cock, the heat spreading lower until it pooled between your legs, arousal coating your inner thighs.

 “Good.” He gives one quick thrust against you for emphasis then releases you and steps back again, leaving you cold and exposed. “Hmm…I think I –think I may have had a change in plans, now that I’m see-eeugh-seeing you like this. And I’m thinking that maybe giving you what you want once and for all will finally get you to stop f-fantasizing about it during my goddamn class.” You hear the rustle of fabric and the clink of a belt buckle being unfastened and then the blunt head of his cock is nudging between your thighs, slipping back and forth through the moisture gathered there with a delicious friction that has you moaning and resting your forehead back down against the cool surface of the desk. Your fingernails scramble for purchase on the smooth wood as he works his way further into you, torturously slow. You can feel the tension in his thighs when he is buried completely, the amount of discipline it’s taking to hold completely still. “Don’t fucking move,” his voice is a low growl. You want to whine and push back against him to get him moving, but you’re afraid that his earlier threat was a serious one and you decide not to risk it.

 His fingers flex against the skin of your hips, digging in, massaging the tender flesh. “Is-is this what you’ve been dreaming about? Is it? Well…” He pulls out until only his tip is left buried in your heat and you gasp and shiver. “Is it as good as you dreamed?” He breathes, hovering motionless for a moment.  You hold your breath, waiting to see if you’re supposed to answer him, but then he’s slamming back in again, setting a rapid rhythm that has you crying out breathlessly. You grip the edge of the desk, the force of his thrusts causing it to slide forward incrementally. Words are pouring out of your mouth, seemingly without any control, a string of “yes” and “good” and “fuck”s slipping out between moans of pleasure and screams of frustration when you begin to feel like he’s not moving fast enough. His fingers dig in deeper to the flesh of your hips, pulling you back against him, meeting every pounding thrust.

 “Are you going to be a—unnnnh-a-a good girl from now on?” Professor Sanchez pants, the rhythm of his hips becoming jerky and uneven as his right hand moves from its place to slide around your front, pausing over your sensitive bundle of nerves.

 “No!” You scream, your impending orgasm apparently deciding that honesty was the best policy.

Professor Sanchez laughs and then groans, fingers twitching over your clit, circling but not touching enough to send you over the edge. “No,  _Professor.”_ He corrects.

 “No, professor!” You cry out desperately.

 Laughing one more time, his fingers descend upon you, rubbing furiously, barely two seconds passing before you’re coming so hard that your knees are shaking, your vision going white and sightless. Professor Sanchez hisses and collapses over your back, his hips thrusting feebly a few more times as his seed shoots deep inside you. You’re both breathing heavily as his slides his softening organ out of you, and he takes a moment to flip your skirt back down and smooth it over your sore bottom.

 He collapses into his chair, long legs splayed out in front of him, mostly-flaccid organ still exposed and glistening with your combined essence. You turn your head so your cheek is resting on the smooth wood, still feeling slightly wobbly in the leg department, and stare at him. He rubs his hands over his face, exhaling deeply and letting his head fall back.

 “I’m glad we could-eeugh-could have this little chat. I hope t-to see you in detention again tomorrow.”


End file.
